


closer to fine

by procrastibaker



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Fluff, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Food as a Metaphor for Stress, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 08:14:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7259560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastibaker/pseuds/procrastibaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The AC is broken, the pie crust is breaking, and Bitty's life is falling apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	closer to fine

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is dedicated to every pie that practically perished in my non-air conditioned kitchen. we will make it through this hot summer!
> 
> title from the indigo girls song of the same name
> 
> content warnings for school-related stress and implied homophobia

Eric Richard Bittle grew up in Georgia, where the temperature in summer averages out at a balmy 90 degrees. It’s surprising there hasn’t been a study conducted on the extraordinary and rapid evolution of southerners’ lungs to be able to breathe when the air outside is about 95% liquid water.

Eric Richard Bittle is also from Georgia, where most everywhere has air conditioning and/or an abundance of fans, and everyone— _everyone_ —knows that you don’t attempt to bake pastry in the middle of the day in the heat of summer if your house isn’t frigid as ice - which is pretty hard to achieve when the heat seeps in like a thick, humid soup.

So when the Haus’ old, rickety air conditioning unit happens to break on a record-breaking hot day in early September, Bitty knows he shouldn’t attempt to bake a pie.

But this is an emergency. A stress-baking emergency.

Bitty wipes his floury hands on his apron and fires off a fifth SOS text to Dex, then breathes a sigh of relief when he receives a terse response.

 

To: William Poindexter  
Do you know how to fix the AC??

To: William Poindexter  
AC is broken, deaths may occur (if that happens, I am not responsible and you never got this text)

To: William Poindexter  
It makes this kinda scary sound when I try to turn it on I’m afraid the haus is about to take off into space. I don’t think we could even make it through the atmosphere without bursting into flames you have to help

To: William Poindexter  
I think ransom is melting. He’s half a puddle. Only you can save him

To: William Poindexter  
Pls help meeeeee

From: William Poindexter  
in class. back in an hr

To: William Poindexter  
My prince! My knight in shining armor! I owe you a billion pies

From: William Poindexter  
can’t promise i’ll be able to fix it

To: William Poindexter  
I believe in you and your handiness!! :) :) :)

 

Still, Bitty resigns himself to rolling out the pie crust that he’d made and chilled an hour earlier, or attempted to chill. The bean-sized chunks of butter in the dough, absolutely necessary for achieving a flaky pastry, have melted. The dough keeps cracking and tearing, and no matter how much flour Bitty puts down, it’s sticking to the silicone mat.

 **Eric Bittle** @omgcheckplease・Sep 3  
Why is it 90 degrees in Massachusetts in September, anyway? It’s like I never left Georgia.  >:-(

“Sometimes I feel like global warming is out to get me,” Bitty sighs, putting down his phone.

“Actually, global warming disproportionately affects the underprivileged working class in developing countries, brah,” Shitty pipes in from his spot on the floor. (Shitty’s visiting for the weekend to “escape the rich, Vineyard Vines-clad white bros of law school.” When Lardo points out that he’s only a gender studies degree and a pair of salmon shorts away from being those rich white bros, Shitty quips, "oh, do you want me to leave?" Lardo's smirk doesn't hide the blush appearing high on her cheeks.)

Shitty is, of course, eager to be in the Haus, where it’s a little bit more socially acceptable to be completely naked. It is true that it’s out of necessity, too; the limp hairs of his still-growing-out flow are sticking to his neck, and his ass makes an unfortunate squelching sound against the linoleum floor when he changes position.

“Eugh, gross, man.” Poor Ransom, sitting at the kitchen table, might be dying. “Also, if I stop breathing, don’t try to revive me because at least then I won’t be contributing carbon dioxide to the atmosphere.”

“Lord, I think this pie crust is going to end up being pie dust,” Bitty says, lifting a sticky piece of dough, as Chowder pops his head in.

“Hey guys, what’s up? Shitty! You’re here! You’re naked! Wow! It’s hot, isn’t it? What kind of pie are you making, Bitty?”

“Blueberry,” Bitty says, glancing over at the bowl of late summer berries macerating - or actually melting - by the sink. They were going to be so good, too - Dex brought a couple quarts of wild blueberries down from Maine, and Bitty’s always wanted to bake with lowbush berries. “I don’t think the pie is going to turn out, though. My crust is no good. The butter melted and it’s going to turn out all crumbly.” Oh well.

“Can’t you just buy a pie crust at the store? I know I’ve seen those disposable pie tins with pie crust already in them in the baking aisle—”

Ransom, bless him, actually gasps, and Bitty puts one floury hand on Chowder’s cheek. “Oh, my child, my sweet son, my infant, I love you, but you’re so wrong and I may have to disown you. My great-meemaw would turn over in her grave. A Phelps man always makes his own pie crust and he lives up to his mistakes, no matter how grave they may be."

“Well, I’m sure it’ll be as great like usual!” Chowder trills, bright as ever. “Uh, I should probably go get this flour off my face! I’m meeting Caitlin for a lunch date, so I’ll see you guys later!”

“See ya, sweetie,” Ransom drawls.

With that, Shitty excuses himself too to go get lunch with Lardo (thankfully after putting pants on), and it’s just Bitty and Ransom in the kitchen now, and Ransom shows no sign of wanting to continue the conversation or even being completely conscious, so Bitty’s left alone with his thoughts and his rolling pin and his faulty pie crust.

Bitty’s been using baking as a coping mechanism for as long as he’s been baking. Drop biscuits and blondies in elementary turned into cookies and cake in middle school turned into soufflés in high school. Pies have been a constant, some fourteen-odd years of improving on his recipe, putting in all his strength to roll out the unyielding dough, focusing on the faint ache in his muscles instead of the thoughts of inadequacy, the jeers of bullies echoing in his head.

Baking has always been something Bitty could depend on. It’s something he can do; it’s something he’s good at.

Bitty is good at baking.

That’s who he is.

When he loses baking, he starts to lose a sense of his own self.

So when Bitty presses the pastry into the pie plate, pours the berries in, and assembles a hasty lattice, he doesn’t have anything to distract himself, to stop his thoughts from going to dark places.

Bitty swallows past the uncomfortable lump in his throat as he puts the pie in the preheated oven and wills his voice not to wobble. “Rans, do you think you’ll be here in 50 minutes?”

“I honestly don’t think I can extract myself from this chair. My ass has melted into the plastic. It’s who I am now. Resident of the Haus kitchen forever, the chair-human Justin Oluransi.”

“Uh, okay, can you take the pie out of the oven then?” The frustration seeps through and his voice cracks a little bit at the end there, shit.

“Yeah, man, of course—dude, are you okay?”

All Bitty can do is nod and bolt upstairs before his voice can betray him any more.

 

_A song of you_  
_Comes as sweet and clear_  
_As moonlight through the pines_

One of Bitty’s earliest memories is of him as a toddler sitting on the edge of the counter, small hands playing with a sticky ball of dough as his mother rolled out the rest of it, singing along to Indigo Girls songs. As he grew up, his time spent in the kitchen with his mama and Simon and Garfunkel and lots and lots of flour and butter was a welcome reprieve from the twangy country music that dominated the local radio stations and the football players on Coach’s team whose teasing often sounded more like jeering and whose roughhousing was less than playful.

Before he left for college, Suzanne made Bitty a mix CD of some of her favorite songs to listen to while baking. Bitty appreciated it, of course—many tears were shed when she gave it to him—but college meant being more comfortable with himself and also his own kitchen, so his new baking playlist consisted of Bey and Nicki and all the music he didn’t feel comfortable openly liking back in Georgia.

Now, though—it’s certainly coming in handy as music to cry to.

A knock sounds on the door and Bitty does his best to plaster on a smile, to even out his voice. “Ransom? Is the pie ready?”

“It’s not Ransom,” says a familiar voice, and Bitty gasps. “A different Canadian, though. Can I-,” but Bitty has already flung the door open and his arms are around Jack’s neck and he’s murmuring “I missed you so much” into Jack’s shoulder.

“-come in,” Jack says belatedly, and Bitty laughs.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Bitty says, pulling back slightly to look up at Jack, but not too much—he doesn’t really ever want to let go.

“I told you I’d drive up before the season started, didn’t I?” Jack’s hand has moved to cradle Bitty’s face, and Bitty suspects that Jack feels similarly.

“Yeah, but I thought you said you were coming next week!” Bitty says _I thought_ as if he hadn’t marked the day on the calendar, as if he hadn’t whispered the number of days left till Jack’s visit giddily to himself every morning as soon as he woke up.

“It was supposed to be a surprise. Shitty and I planned it.” Jack’s other hand threads through Bitty’s hair. “But then Ransom texted us and told me you seemed upset and were listening to ‘suspiciously downbeat music’ so I drove up a little earlier than planned.”

“Oh my god, Jack.” Bitty can’t resist any more—he tilts his head up to meet Jack’s lips. The kiss is soft and slow and sweet, making up for all the time they’re forced to spend apart from each other. Jack’s thumb is sweeping along Bitty’s cheekbone and it reminds him of that warm afternoon in May, so long ago now it seems. When they’re together—in Madison, for the fourth of July; in Providence, when Bitty has been able to take the train down during pre-season conditioning; now—Bitty feels like he’s falling all over again.

He could stay like this forever, but the screen door slams shut suddenly and Bitty’s brought back to the present, the stifling heat of the late summer day and the feeling of the warped wood under his bare feet, and he remembers they’re right in the hallway where anyone could see them. He pulls back grudgingly. “We should probably go into my room, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Jack lets go just as reluctantly.

They go inside, and Bitty locks the door and vehemently hopes no one tries to open it, because boy would that be a prime source of chirping material in the future.

They sit down on Bitty’s bed, legs crossed, knees touching, and Bitty feels dizzy with the proximity. They’ve been closer, of course, they’ve been together in Jack’s bed, but never here, in Bitty’s room, in the Haus. Bitty remembers all the nights last year he spent thinking of Jack, just across the hall, and he blushes. Luckily, Jack doesn’t seem to notice.

The music is still echoing out of the tinny speakers on Bitty’s laptop, and he suddenly remembers this morning and the panicky feeling he’s had all day, and he goes to shut the music off. Jack tilts his head.

“I thought you didn’t like this song? WJLZ 90.8 Oldies, right?” Jack’s eyes are concerned and soft, but he’s got his chirping smile on.

Bitty sniffs and stifles a laugh at the same time and it comes out more like a snort. “Aw, Jack, you know that was just chirping.... Or flirting, maybe.” At this, Jack’s grin grows even wider, and Bitty flushes and swats his arm. “Be quiet, Mr. Zimmermann!”

Jack raises his arms and shrugs, as if to say, “I didn’t say anything.”

“No, it’s just I—well, it reminds me of you,” and Jack’s eyes crinkle and they’re so, so blue, and Bitty thinks he could stare into them forever. It’s cheesy, but he’s never been this close to anyone before, never let himself be this close to anyone, physically or emotionally. To let himself feel this way—it’s terrifying and exhilarating, and he feels vulnerable in all the best ways.

Bitty shakes himself. This is what happens when they’re together—he gets so distracted by Jack being, well, Jack that he can’t really think about anything else. But this is important. 

“But it also, um. Kind of reminds me of home, and I’ve been thinking. I met with Professor Atley this morning and she told me I need to focus on keeping my grades up this semester or I might not qualify for the major, and my junior seminar so far seems like _so_ much work, and I’m really nervous? If they put me on academic probation then I won’t be able to play on the team and I’ll lose my athletic scholarship and I’ll have to go back home and, I don’t know, work for Coach or something and, _lord_ , I’m just so scared. I can’t—I—.” Bitty shuts his eyes to dam up the tears that are threatening to spill.” “I came to Samwell for a reason and I just. I can’t live the rest of my life in hiding—shit.”

Bitty trusts Jack with all his heart, but he hates crying in front of people, the feeling of not being in control of his own body. He pauses to school his breathing, tries to will away the warble in his voice. Jack’s hand is on Bitty’s knee, his thumb rubbing comforting circles on his thigh.

“So, normally, when I’m stressed I’ll bake a pie—well, you know that, obviously. It just, it takes my mind off of things, and it gives me something to do, and I feel, like, accomplished when it’s done. But it’s so hot and my pie crust kind of melted and everything came rushing back and I just felt very overwhelmed?” Bitty gulps. “So I entrusted my pie with Ransom and, uh. Now I’m here, and probably overthinking everything, but, uh. Yeah.”

Bitty peeks his eyes open. He thinks he probably sounds pretty hysterical, and he’s afraid Jack will think he’s being unreasonable, but instead Jack looks so, so understanding and kind, because of course. How could Bitty expect any less from him?

“Oh, Bits. Mon ange. C’mere.” Bitty shivers at the bilingual endearments as he cuddles up to Jack, and he’s momentarily distracted by the easy way their bodies fit together. Jack had been concerned, at first, about touching Bitty, because of the way he reacts on the ice, but Bitty’s found that he _definitely_ does not have a problem with physical contact when it comes to Jack. (In all non-checking contexts. And maybe some gentler checking contexts, when they’re all alone on the ice, and—ah, Bitty’s getting distracted again.) “God, I wish I could just absorb all your anxiety.”

“Um, Jack, I think you have enough to deal with.”

“Yeah, it’s just. Well. What you’re feeling is legitimate. And I definitely don’t think you’re overthinking anything. The future is scary.”

“You can say that again.”

“And you shouldn’t feel bad about—about feeling bad about this, you know? But I also want you to know that—well, at the risk of sounding cliché, we’ve got your back. Me, and the team—we care about you.”

“I know—”

“I mean, Dex is downstairs right now working hard to fix the air conditioner—for _you_ , and not just because he knows it means more pies.”

“Although that’s probably a factor.” 

Jack laughs. “Maybe. But what I’m getting at is. We care about you. Ask anyone in this Haus, anyone on the team, to help you in any way and they’ll do it without a second thought. And you can always talk to me about this stuff—you don’t always have to bottle up your feelings and bake them into a pie.” 

“Ha, yeah, I guess that’s what I do. And for some reason it’s easier for me to talk to hundreds of strangers on the internet through a camera than to talk about my feelings, face-to-face? But I’ll try. I trust you.” 

“Bits.” There’s a woosh of air on Bitty’s face, and he twists his head to see that Jack’s gazing down at him, eyes shining. “That means a lot.” 

“Any time,” Bitty says, a little breathlessly. 

“You’re just. You’re not going to have to live in Georgia forever. You’re smart and talented and you have friends who love you and would drop anything to help you. You’ll make it through.” 

Bitty’s so full of love that he just wants to absorb this moment. He sets his head back down so Jack can nuzzle his face in Bitty’s hair—he loves doing that. They’re both pretty sticky and gross from the heat, but there’s no place Bitty would rather be than right here, fitting so perfectly against his boyfriend, their legs tangled together. Bitty’s head is on Jack’s chest and he syncs their breathing until they’re rising and falling together. The panicky feeling is still there, but it’s been pushed to the shadowy corners of his mind where the anxiety sometimes lurks, displaced by hope and contentedness. Bitty can live with that. 

“Also,” Jack says quietly, after a few minutes of this. “I know you’re worried about this class, but you aced our food and culture class last year as a sophomore, and that was a senior seminar.” 

“Well, yeah, but it was about food, so…” 

“I’m sure you can find a way to incorporate baking. That’s definitely something you can talk to Atley about.” 

“In a class called ‘Representing Race in American Culture?’” 

“Oh, come on, I’m already picturing at least three things you could write about.” 

Bitty sighs. “That’s true. You’re right. It’s really interesting already, just a lot of reading. But I got by in Atley’s class without doing all the readings, anyway.” 

“What other classes are you taking?” 

“Umm. Let’s see. I’m taking another American studies class, Childhood in America–” 

“Is that the one where you read all those kids’ books?” 

“Yeah. I’m actually really excited about that one. Uh, a statistics class for the quantitative analysis requirement, and French, ha.” 

“Ah, ouais?” Jack laughs, and Bitty blushes. “Well, Ransom can help you with the math stuff, but you already know who to ask for French.” 

“Oui, oui, monsieur,” Bitty mangles, and Jack glares at him but there’s no malice in it. The door slams downstairs, again, and Bitty groans. “Ugh, we should probably go back down there. Once Shitty hears word that you’re here, I’m sure he’ll try to break down the door and that would be kind of a weird way for him to find out.” 

Jack takes a deep breath. “We can tell them, if you want.” 

Bitty brightens up. “Yeah?” He knows how important it is that they keep this relationship secret for now, but he’d love to be able to gush to someone about Jack. Right now Señor Bunny is getting all the juicy gossip, and he’s inanimate so he probably doesn’t appreciate it as much as, say, Lardo would. 

“Not the whole team, maybe just the Haus. And the frogs.” Jack nudges Bitty. “You could bake something.” 

“Hmm. What kind of pie says ‘I’m sleeping with a professional hockey player?’” 

“Not a pie.” Jack laughs, that shoulder-shaking chuckle that always precedes one of his terrible dad jokes, and Bitty braces himself. “A pound cake.” 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://hockeylesbians.tumblr.com)! (or my [baking tumblr](http://procrastibaker.tumblr.com))
> 
> music in this fic is taken from my own baking playlist, which can be found [here!](https://open.spotify.com/user/123607197/playlist/5HmVZeU2CucNx9kOIhn6Ng) I don't think this is exactly what mama bittle's baking playlist would sound like, but I'm sure she'd like some of those songs.


End file.
